


Of Complication and Contingence

by scarlett_the_seachild



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Love, Romantic Friendship, Touch-Starved, Touching, Unrequited Crush, Warning: Gansey likes Madonna, also lilac, complicated feelings, dealing with sexuality, ghost of ronan before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 10:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7841578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When they finally met, both boys had grown up speaking the same language, the language of touch, albeit in different dialects.<br/>The complication lay in the fact that Ronan had learned that touch conveyed significance, while Gansey had learned that it did not.</i>
</p><p>
A "Ronan and Gansey before" story about love and friendship and touching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Complication and Contingence

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really like writing about Gansey and Ronan's relationship, especially before Niall's death.
> 
> Can be read as a continuation of my fic The Fourth Week of June but it's not necessary or anything. Essentially a "does my friend like me or are they just really bad at boundaries"/"do I like you or am I just really bad at working out my own emotions" angst. Not autobiographical in the slightest...
> 
> ahem. enjoy.

 “It’s a proud day when your son gets to wear the same colours as his old man,” a friend of Richard Gansey II proclaimed to a profoundly interested audience. “A proud day indeed.”

This same audience smiled courteously, or else nodded in a diplomatic sort of way. The friend in question, whose name was Corcoran, or “Corky” to his dearest (of whom both Ronan and Gansey Junior had been assured they counted) had just downed a quarter of a bottle of brandy, and had been carrying on in this vain for a good twenty minutes. Despite the fact that his face was by now the same red as the silken tie around his generous neck, he showed no intention of slowing.

“Of course he had other offers,” he answered the question that had been on the tip of every tongue in the room. “And I told him that there was no shame in Yale, no shame at all. But I knew, as well as he did, that he was destined to be a Princeton man.”

Ronan, who was seated at Gansey’s elbow, released a loud snort that he turned quickly into a cough. Gansey thumped him hard on the back. From across the table his mother sent him a warning look, however Corky was in full steam and appeared not to notice.

“Proud day indeed,” he was bellowing, thumping meaty fists onto the dinner table in emphasis. “Damn near balled my eyes out. Almost picked him up, took him in my arms again like when he was a tyke. I didn’t, of course,” he added quickly, as if people had looked alarmed at this confession. “No, no. There’s a line, you understand, between father and son, that you just can’t cross. Not if you want ‘em turning out the right way.”

At this, Ronan let out a loud squawk that had several people, Corky included, staring questioningly at him. As was his duty and his privilege Gansey recovered quickly, getting to his feet and yanking Ronan up with him.

“He’s been feeling under the weather all day,” he explained to the many raised eyebrows. “I’ll just go and get him an aspirin.”

Ronan did his best to look very ill indeed as he followed Gansey out of the dining room. This was a difficult feat however as he caught Corky’s assured words to the party: “That there’s a son whose father hugged him too hard. I can’t remember the last time Jacky-boy got sick.”

Once safely outside the confines of the white stucco walls, surrounded again by the scent of honey-suckle and juniper neither Gansey nor Ronan could hold it in any longer. Their laughter exploded from them like champagne, tears streaming from their eyes as they clasped one another, breathlessly, for support.

“No, no, Gansey,” Ronan managed to wheeze as Gansey clapped a hand to his shoulder to keep himself upright. “There’s a _line,_ you understand, that you just can’t cross.”

“Oh no,” Gansey exclaimed in mock horror. “I wouldn’t want to _get sick.”_

That started them up again and this time they laughed for so long Ronan feared a little for his insides, straining against his creaking ribcage. A few feet away the guests stood on the balcony shot them quizzical, disapproving looks which only made everything funnier.

“Why are we laughing?” Gansey managed finally between hiccoughs once they had both gotten their breaths back. “No, really, we shouldn’t be laughing, it’s so sad...imagine being so trapped by your masculinity that you can’t even _hug your son.”_

Ronan shook his head, at a loss. “Beats me man,” he said. “But I mean, that’s just the sentimental, pansy, poor immune system wuss my dad’s to blame for talking.”

Gansey exhaled sharply through his nose, his amusement tempered now by irritation. “It’s just terrible though,” he said at length. “Just imagine what kind of repressive issues that kid’s going to have later in life, which he’ll probably pass on to his own son. This obsession this country has with being manly...this God awful tradition that says anything to do with showing love or affection is weakness...it’s just _toxic.”_

Ronan nodded dumbly. Gansey huffed again impatiently, running a hand through perfectly tousled chestnut hair. Earlier that day his mother had attacked it with a wet comb in a desperate attempt to get it to lie flat but to no avail; he looked, as always, as though he had just stepped off a helicopter into a particularly healthy summer breeze. Ronan looked out to the balcony. The couple who had been glaring at them were still eye balling them meanly. Ronan resisted the temptation to swear back at them.                                                                                             

“We should head back inside,” he told Gansey.

Gansey grimaced and pinched the skin between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Do we have to?”

“It’s your do, man.”

“It’s my mother’s do,” Gansey corrected him. “I’m just the excuse.”

“You’re not an excuse. You’re a fucking debutante.”

“Right, and this is my Coming Out?”

Ronan shrugged. “I mean, your father hugged you, so.”

The sound Gansey made was eerily similar to the one that had escaped from Ronan at the dinner table.

“Jesus,” he said. “Remind me again why I brought you?”

Ronan stole a canapé from a plate balancing on the balcony and grinned at Gansey through layers of cream cheese. “Because I’m a fucking delight.”

“You’re a bad influence,” grumbled Gansey. Then, contrary to his feigned ill humour he smacked Ronan affectionately on the back of his head, grasping his neck to propel him forward.

“Come on Lynch,” he said with great reluctance. “Onwards and upwards. _Excelsior_ , as the Romans say.”

Diligent as a blood hound, Ronan followed Gansey back to the dining room where both the wine and the conversation had been flowing without them. After Gansey apologised for their absence both he and Ronan sat down and managed to survive the three remaining courses and Jim Corcoran by hiding their smirks behind their napkins.

There was only so much an assorted mash of various sea-foods en croûte could do to liven a disguised political gathering however and before too long Gansey and Ronan had resorted to a more liquid means of alleviating their boredom. Although Ronan had only known Gansey a few months he had discovered fairly on in their acquaintance that the honourable heir was, in fact, a tremendous lightweight and he exploited this weakness with pleasure. Before too long, Richard Campbell Gansey III was quite gracefully and spectacularly pissed.

“Lynch,” he crowed, passing his hands dramatically across his brow and leaning against a pillar, looking like the tortured subject of a Renaissance painting. “Oh Lynch. Help. I’m so drunk.”

Quite predictably, Ronan laughed at him.

In response, Gansey slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders, Ronan assumed to stabilise himself, until Gansey then proceeded to lean in and kiss him squarely on the temple.

“You’re such a big help,” he said warmly. “Don’t ever change.”

 _Ah,_ thought Ronan to himself, stomach plummeting as Gansey helped himself to more champagne. _This is when things get complicated._

***

Herein lay the complication: the Ganseys had always been a tactile breed. This familial characteristic could be traced back to George Rochester Gansey who had fought in the War of Independence and was said to have clasped Lafayette so warmly that the Frenchman felt all the fraternity of confederation in his handshake. The truth of this statement is somewhat disputed, however what is in little doubt is the lack of constrain in paternal affection that Richard Gansey II bestowed upon his son.

Like his son, Dick Gansey Senior went to an all boys' school, the kind of school built on the fraternal, homo-appreciative camaraderie so championed by such institutions. These were the kind of schools that boasted “friends for life”, the sort of intense, romantic relationships depicted in old novels and war movies starring Sean Penn. The native language of such institutions was intensely physical, a language of back pats and shoulder clasps, handshakes and wet towels that Dick Gansey Senior was fluent in. An outside, critical lens might analyse such communication as homoerotic, however, whether or not this is true is in some way redundant; for the elder Gansey and his classmates there was nothing in the physical, jovial assertion of affection that was anything but platonic, and deeply, intrinsically masculine.

As a result, the adult Richard Gansey II acquired a reputation for himself as a singularly warm individual, his manner of greeting almost European in his eagerness to kiss, to shake hands, to embrace. This was a trait shared among all Gansey men, the women in the family being somewhat colder with Helen having inherited her mother’s detached aloofness when it came to physical affection. Thus, as a child Gansey was more inclined to crawl onto his father’s knee than look for attention from his mother.

Things were similar in the Lynch household. However, whereas the Gansey’s tactile nature stemmed primarily from general compassion and goodwill to all men, Ronan’s family’s reliance on physical communication came from an innate ineptitude at the verbal. The Lynch brothers did not talk, they fought. After missing Christmas, Niall would return with a present of multi-coloured lizards for Ronan. Then he would throw him over his shoulder before holding him close and kissing him and Ronan knew that it meant “I love you.”

Instead of teaching Ronan how to articulate his emotions, Niall taught Ronan to box.

So it happened that, when they finally met, both boys had grown up speaking the same language, the language of touch, albeit in different dialects.

The complication lay in the fact that Ronan had learned that touch conveyed significance, while Gansey had learned that it did not.

One day, a long time before Niall’s death, Gansey came to Ronan’s house after crew.

“Good God,” he exclaimed, crashing onto the sofa in the living room. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired in my life.”

He closed his eyes. Ronan glanced at him. His chest was rising and falling very heavily, as if he had run a long way.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Ronan warned him. There was a film he wanted to watch, lots of blood and shooting and violence, and it was quite frankly a travesty that Gansey hadn’t seen it.

“I won’t,” Gansey promised him.

“I’m serious,” Ronan insisted. “If you fall asleep I’ll kick your ass.”

“Shh,” said Gansey.

Ronan rolled his eyes and got up to put on the film. Gansey settled back against the sofa, one arm slung behind Ronan, his arm curved round so that his fingers dangled inches from his shoulder.

For the first half an hour, Gansey kept his promise, blinking politely through the most horrific scenes while Ronan cackled moronically. They had barely gotten halfway however before Gansey was fast asleep, snoring gently, with his head resting on Ronan’s shoulder.

It would be an exaggeration to say that Ronan suffered a shock. The other day, after a truly terrible fight, Declan had apologised to Ronan by punching him civilly on the shoulder. Now, this same shoulder was being used as a pillow for another boy’s, and that boy being his best friend’s, head.

Gansey snored softly, blowing a lock of hair upwards. Ronan stared calmly at the television screen in front of him. Inside, he was screaming. _What does this mean? What does this mean?_ Quite often, he would crawl up to his father, seated on the couch and the big man would stretch out, allowing Ronan to lean against him, and Niall would put an arm around him. But his father loved him, so it was okay.

Before he had time to work himself further into a panic attack, Gansey’s eyes fluttered open.

“Sorry,” Gansey smiled sheepishly and Ronan relaxed, that is until he realised that Gansey was apologising for falling asleep, and not for falling asleep on him. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just so _tired.”_

He yawned and shifted so that he was more efficiently resting against Ronan. He did not lift his head.

“I’m watching now,” he said. “Just remind me why Charlie Sheen is bombing the village with the nice people?”

It took Ronan a moment to get his voice back enough to explain to Gansey the plot. As he stuttered vaguely through a description Gansey hummed agreeably and Ronan felt the vibrations all the way down his left side. He did not lift his head from Ronan for the remainder of the film, and for the remainder of the film Ronan knew nothing except Gansey’s gentle weight, Gansey’s steady warmth, Gansey’s soft breathing.

***

Continued: the complication. Ronan lived in a world where touch meant something. It was an expression of love, a fit of anger, an apology. A means of saying what couldn’t be said with words.

Gansey lived in a world where touch _was_ dialogue. At school he didn’t greet his friends; he strode up to them from across the quad and clasped their arms before forcibly pulling them into a Gansey-hug. Ronan had observed this phenomenon, each time with a stab of jealousy followed by disappointment as he was forced to accept the fact of the matter: this was how Gansey was. Ronan was nothing special.

Despite the fact that Gansey was far from the apotheosis of the macho man at Aglionby, that he professed a liking for theatrical musicals, Madonna and pastel shirts there had never been any serious rumours that he swung. He’d had girlfriends, after all, and presumably he’d had sex with them too. Once, when Ronan teased him about his wardrobe, he had replied haughtily, “I am confident enough in both my masculinity and sexuality to observe that, in times of mild weather, one can rely on lilac.” The absurdity of this statement aside, there had never been any direct indication, either from Gansey or any of his fellow students, that he was anything other than straight as a polo stick.

Even so, it was hard to suppress a glimmer of hope each time Gansey, with an exclamation of joy, leapt up to meet Ronan and, embracing him tightly, would whisper something into his ear that was, by all accounts, super gay. An example: “Mmm. _You_ smell nice.”

The facts: Gansey wore a lot of lilac. Gansey sung gustily along to “Get into the Groove.” Gansey had zero qualms about references to his or anyone else’s sexuality. Gansey spent a lot of time touching Ronan.

Ronan wasn’t a fan of the word “confused”. But he thought “complicated” summed things up quite nicely.

“How do you know you’re straight?” Ronan blurted out one particularly drunken evening (for some entirely unknown reason, the crew and tennis teams had decided to join forces for the night, resulting in an overwhelming number of puns based on the word _oar_ and frequent Henry V references: _Here’s tennis balls for you, sir!)_

Gansey blinked at him. Ronan coloured and, in order to avoid Gansey’s bewildered stare, took a long sip of beer.

“I don’t know,” he replied after a long while. “The same way anyone does, I suppose. I’ve never thought about men in that way.”

Ronan tried not to let the literal apocalypse that was his emotional wellbeing reflect upon his face as he asked Gansey coolly, “Never?”

Gansey frowned, apparently thinking hard. “Well,” he said. “I guess that’s not entirely true. There have been men I’ve looked at and thought that they were, you know, attractive or whatever. And there are people whom I’ve thought about romantically, whom I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss, or date. But when it actually comes to sex...no, I don’t think I’ve ever looked at a man and felt physical attraction to them like that.”

He put his bottle to his lips and took a deep, philosophical swig. Then he lowered it and looked at Ronan and Ronan saw the question on his face, along with all Gansey’s keen temptation to ask it: _How do you know_ you’re _straight?_ And Ronan held his breath, waiting for it to come up, preparing in his head an answer because lying just wasn’t an option, and Gansey knew that it wasn’t.

But the question never came. Gansey didn’t ask, and in that moment, more fiercely than any other, Ronan loved him.

***

But Gansey wasn’t gay. And actually, Ronan was wonderfully surprised to realise, that was alright. Because now Ronan didn’t have to worry every time Gansey nodded off on his shoulder, or ran a hand over his freshly buzzed skull so that all the surviving hairs on the back of his neck stood as straight as if they had met with a winter chill, or reached out to adjust his tie for him. He could accept now that there was no hidden meaning in this, that sometimes a touch was just a touch and that was okay, and it was okay to enjoy being touched and to want to be touched more, and it didn’t have to mean anything at all.

Relaxing in Gansey’s presence became much easier with this knowledge and the next time Gansey came to his house it was Ronan who slung his jean clad legs casually (oho-ho) over Gansey’s. Gansey looked surprised by this development for approximately three seconds before he was grinning stupidly, looking very pleased with himself. It was a long time before Ronan tried anything more intimate however, until the night of the next crew-tennis soiree.

They were waiting for their taxi outside the door of an enormous brownstone which belonged to Barny Cohen, a teammate of Gansey’s and one of the most passionate supporters of beer pong Ronan had ever met. It was raining, and yet there was a silent understanding between them that neither of them wanted to head back inside. Behind them, throbbing from the music speakers rattled French windows, the drone of drum and bass punctuated by the crash of broken glass and appreciative guffaws. Ronan groaned, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

“I swear to God man,” he said. “If I hear that word _one more time.”_

Gansey raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m not sure you have any right to judge, Mr ‘How many Catullus quotes can I compare to this tennis racket’.”

“Hey,” said Ronan. “I appreciate a good dick joke as much as the next person. But seriously dude, _oar-_ al? I mean, come on. _Virgil_ could have come up with that.”

Gansey chuckled fondly. “Well we can’t all be gifted linguists.”

He grinned at Ronan and the light of the streetlamp hit his face, dripping with the rain to drench him in a watery orange glow. In his black coat and dinner suit he looked like the young Detective protagonist of a 30s noire film, before the decadence of the “streets” had yet to warp his naïveté.

The taxi drew up, tires screeching against the wet tarmac and Ronan climbed in after Gansey. It wasn’t until he felt himself sink into the soft, dry leather of the seats that he realised how tired he was. Gansey gave the driver the address for Monmouth and then turned to Ronan, an apologetic look on his face.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said. “I know you hate them.”

Ronan waved dismissively. “It’s cool,” he replied. “Coach would beat my ass if I missed another one, so.”

But he hadn’t come for Coach and they both knew it. Instead of saying anything Gansey merely flashed him another grateful smile before turning away to look out the window. Outside the night swept by in a blur of beaming colour, cold air blasting through the open window with the sounds of car horns and shouting drinkers. Ronan’s head felt heavy, his mind befuddled with alcohol and the urge to sleep. Before he knew what he was doing he was dropping it onto Gansey’s shoulder, fingers tightening possessively over his bicep as his eyes fluttered closed.

As he drifted lazily out of consciousness he became dimly aware of the gentle, feather-light grazing of Gansey’s knuckles, up and down and up again over the shell of his ear. He fell asleep and when he woke up again to the dark loom of Monmouth Manufacturing and the driver opening the car door, Gansey was still stroking him.

It wasn’t long before this had become a fundamental part of their relationship. It became a common thing at Aglionby to see Lynch leap out from the cloisters to tackle Gansey just as he was leaving French, or to look across the quad and see Ronan with his head in Gansey’s lap, squinting into his Latin textbook while the former yanked daisies from the earth and scattered them over his forehead. What was more, Gansey, who by now had survived a great deal of exposure to the Lynch brothers, understood that Ronan had issues with expressing himself out loud. As a result they learned to communicate another way; a subtle touch to the neck, a hand on a shoulder, a finger on the back of a hand.

Then someone murdered Niall Lynch. And Ronan changed. And Gansey was forced into the title of not just best friend but keeper, custodian, brother and parent all at once.

Ronan told Gansey in the Camaro as they left the police station. Gansey was very good, neglecting to treat it as a Big Deal because it wasn’t, wasn’t anything other than another side of the many-dimensioned, multi-faceted structure that was Ronan Lynch. He didn’t even try to have an in depth, serious conversation about Ronan’s feelings (except for one attempt, before it became very apparent that Ronan was Not Enjoying This and it was promptly abandoned.) In short, he acted as if nothing had changed in the slightest, except for one very big difference. He stopped touching Ronan.

Ronan first noticed this a few weeks after the event, with both of them sprawled upon the sofa sort-of-watching-but-not-really _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid._ They were sitting at opposite ends, which was uncommon enough, and Ronan was taking up the majority, long limbs spread out in front of him as if he were in bed. Gansey was perched up against the arm rest, one elbow propping himself up and when Ronan inched closer towards him, he moved away. Not dramatically, but enough that it was noticeable.

Ronan frowned. “What?” he demanded.

“What?” Gansey echoed.

Ronan didn’t answer, but set his jaw and turned back to the screen and blinked very hard.

Ronan had only told Gansey that he was gay. Still, facts were Gansey’s business. He put two and two together and came up with the conclusion that, to prevent risking further harm to an already fragile creature, he ought to distance himself. Flawless logic in theory, however it also happened to be the absolute opposite of what Ronan needed.

“Did you guys fall out or something?” Tad Carruthers asked Gansey one afternoon.

Gansey closed his book in order to more efficiently frown at Tad. He was looking over the quad to where Ronan was making his way from the court, looking incongruous in white tennis shirt and shorts.

“No,” he replied, puzzled. “Why?”

Tad shrugged. “You guys don’t seem so close. You used to be all over each other. Not in a _gay_ way, or anything,” he said hurriedly. “I mean, there might have been some people who said that but I always set them straight, you know.”

Gansey followed Tad’s gaze, sighing inwardly as Ronan snapped at a freshman who stood in his way.

“Ronan’s going through a hard time at the moment,” he said at last. “He needs his own space.”

Tad nodded, like he could see the rationality in this. From across the quad Ronan looked up; his eyes met Gansey’s before flitting to Tad and narrowing. As if he could sense the malice in this, Tad gave an involuntary shiver.

“I don’t know man,” he said. “That looks like a guy who could use a hug.”

Gansey didn’t say anything. A few minutes later Ronan appeared, tennis racket swung aggressively over one shoulder, and stared at Tad until he took off, mumbling something about coursework.

Gansey rolled his eyes and turned to Ronan. “How was practice?”

Ronan shrugged. He hesitated. “I think I might quit.”

Gansey suffered a physical reaction to this news, and had to restrain himself from clasping a hand to his chest. “But what about State Champs?”

Ronan shrugged again. He lowered his tennis racket and made as if to touch Gansey’s arm. Before his fingers could graze his sweater, Gansey stood up quickly.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “Let’s get some lunch.”

Ronan looked at him oddly, dark brows drawing low over his sharp eyes. Gansey stared back at him, his expression open even as his pulse fluttered wildly in his wrist. Finally Ronan exhaled sharply through his nose, gesturing at Gansey to walk before following him to the cafeteria.

***

Gansey was not a skittish person. He was certainly no homophobe. In entirely all other aspects he treated Ronan no differently than normal, except of course with a degree more paternal protectiveness that would have been touching if it weren’t so _annoying._ Ronan knew objectively that Gansey was looking out for him, acting in his best interests, trying to protect his feelings blah blah blah et cetera as the Romans say, but also Gansey was an idiot. Maybe Gansey thought Ronan needed space, maybe Gansey didn’t want to lead Ronan on. But Ronan’s father had been found with his head smashed in with a tire iron and Ronan’s mother was a catatonic shell and Ronan felt he could have sold his soul to Satan for a single pat on the head.

Also, Ronan hadn’t thought about Gansey like that for months. He had even stopped showing up in his dreams (so much.)  So when Ronan stretched out his foot to rest against Gansey’s thigh and Gansey jolted up from the sofa, running a hand flusterdly through his hair and stammering out an excuse, he half wanted to roll his eyes in exasperation and half wanted to punch his hand through a wall.

Ronan had never had any experience with touch starvation and before now had wondered whether it was even really a thing. Now, laying awake in bed at night, unable to sleep with how much his body _ached_ with the need to be touched, to be brushed against, until his skin itched and burned with the knowledge that Gansey was only _a door away_ he knew better. But Ronan had never learned how to ask for what he wanted, not out loud. He couldn’t just ask Gansey to touch him. So he didn’t and he ached and he wanted and he missed everything that he had taken for granted with an intensity that was almost searing.

“Where do you go at night?” asked Gansey one evening.

Ronan, who had been consumed by the act of painting his toenails, froze with his hand on the brush. Gansey was observing him with his brow furrowed, arms crossed over his chest. Silence reigned for a horribly long time before Ronan recollected himself and resumed the painting of his pinkie.

“I don’t know that that’s any of your fucking business, Dick,” he replied easily.

“The goings on of this house are my business,” replied Gansey, unintimidated.

“Good thing none of it goes on in this house then, isn’t it?”

“Don’t test me, Lynch,” said Gansey, his voice low and serious. “I’m not playing.”

Ronan smirked. “Sure _dad,”_ he mocked scathingly. “What are you gonna do, ground me?”

“Is it Joseph Kavinsky?” Gansey ignored him. “Is that it? Is that what you’re getting yourself into now?”

The smirk vanished from Ronan’s face as if Gansey had wiped it off. The mocking laughter was gone from his eyes to be replaced by a dangerous glint, like the flash of a warning light. “Stop,” he said, and it sounded like a threat.

 “No,” said Gansey recklessly. “I’ve been hearing things, Ronan. People have seen you at...places. With people. I’m not judging but you need to know it’s not safe, in fact it’s downright irresponsible-”

“-You’re not judging,” Ronan spat, getting to his feet. “Damn right you’re not judging. Fuck you.”

Gansey looked at him, unimpressed. “Ronan,” he said. “I understand that this is hard for you. It’s natural to want to try things, to experiment, but you can’t put yourself in danger like this.”

He was cut off by the bark of Ronan’s laugh, awful and humourless. _“Experiment,”_ he repeated with disdain. “Seriously man, fuck you.”

Gansey’s eyes were hard. “Please don’t speak to me like that.”

Ronan’s raised eyebrow was like the slash of a knife. His temper, always so close to the surface these days, had finally reached boiling point and he could feel it burning in his veins as he snapped. “Well _Jesus_ man,” he shouted. “Forgive me for taking what I can get, seeing as you won’t even fucking _touch_ me.”

It was as if someone had slapped him. Instantly Gansey’s face went white, his eyes wide as he stared at Ronan who watched with grim satisfaction as his mouth worked, although no sound came out.

“I...” he managed at last, high spots of colour appearing in the hollow of his cheeks. “I...”

“Forget it,” spat Ronan savagely. “I don’t care.”

Without waiting for Gansey to call him back he crossed the room swiftly, yanking open the door of his bedroom and shutting it abruptly. Ignoring Gansey’s pleas he grabbed his headphones, pulling them over his ears and cranking up the volume until they were drowned out completely by the heavy pounding of bass.

Outside the sky darkened. Ronan lay awake, his side against the bed, the covers torn off his burning skin in a fit of furious irritation. The moon slipped from the window, down from the shelf and onto Ronan’s face to illuminate the fact that he was crying.

His skin burned. He thought he might tear it off. Electronica blasted from his headphones and the bass hummed through his body, every vibration a reminder of his loneliness but at least this way he couldn’t hear himself. Embarrassment and shame coursed through him, almost as fierce as the hunger that had him bunching his fists against the mattress and turning his face into the pillow.

He didn’t hear the knock at the door, followed by the sound of it creaking open, didn’t know that Gansey was there until suddenly he was standing in front of him, Gansey with his eyes wide as he stared at Ronan with dawning comprehension and Ronan, feeling heat creep into his face turned away so that Gansey wouldn’t see his humiliation.

Regardless, Gansey’s voice was hushed and cracked with wonder when he spoke. “Oh my God, Ronan.”

In answer, Ronan made a strangled noise that was half a sob. Tentatively, Gansey sat down on the edge of the bed. Ronan felt the mattress sag, could almost sense the warmth flooding from Gansey’s body, so close it was unbearable.

“You should have said,” Gansey whispered. “You should have just said.”

It was costing Ronan a lot of effort to speak. But when he did, he very nearly cursed at the words that fell involuntarily from his mouth. “Do you not like me anymore?”

Gansey looked horror-struck, as if someone had just punched the wind from his stomach. “Ronan of course not,” he said and it sounded like he might cry as well. “How could you...of course I still like you, Jesus, I just...I didn’t want you to think that there was any more than I could give and...I didn’t want to confuse you...or hurt you...”

Ronan cut him off with a harsh laugh. “Seriously?” he demanded. “Seriously, Gansey? You think _that’s_ at the top of my fucking mind right now? You think that’s what I want?”

Gansey swallowed, not knowing how to reply. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I’m so stupid...God. I’m sorry.”

He reached out to touch Ronan’s shoulder. Ronan flinched at the contact but Gansey’s hand didn’t move. “What do you want, Ronan?” he asked. “Tell me, please.”

Ronan’s bottom lip trembled. He wiped his eyes. “I want my dad back.”

And Gansey truly understood for the first time what it meant when people talked about their hearts breaking.

“I can’t give you that,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry Ronan, but I can’t.”

Ronan opened his mouth and closed it again. No matter what, he couldn’t ask. He hadn’t been raised for words.

But Gansey understood.

Wordlessly, he climbed so that he was more effectively on the mattress before laying down. Ronan shifted to make room for him, curling his knees more securely to his chest and Gansey moved closer so that his torso was up against Ronan’s back. Freeing his arm from where it was stuck between the two of them he wrapped it tightly around Ronan, holding him close so that he could feel his heart galloping. Ronan was shaking, so much that the mattress beneath them vibrated with it. Gansey pressed his face to the back of Ronan’s neck, feeling the blushing skin there, and pressed a kiss to it.

“Easy,” he murmured.

In response, Ronan released a shaky breath, his body stilling very slightly. Outside it had started to rain; he could hear the thrum of water against the glass, rhythmic and relentless. His own tears slipped down his cheeks and onto the mattress, darkening the sheets. At the Barns when it rained, he and his brothers would strip out of their shirts and run barefoot into the fields, laughing and screaming swear words back at the thunder. The rain came down and mists would rise up at the fringes of the long grass, blotting out the surrounding countryside until all that seemed to exist was their single patch of earth, and no one on it but their family. He often thought that that was how things might have been at the very beginnings of the world, Adam and Eve standing side by side, smiling as their sons played in the world that was created for them.

Gansey’s arms tightened around him. Ronan could almost smell the damp of the earth, the rotting sweetness of fallen fruit. He heard his mother’s laughter and wondered if she would ever wake up. He saw his father, picking him up and swinging him round and round, the rain bouncing off his enormous shoulders and knew that he wasn’t.

The body behind him was warm and solid. Gansey stroked his arm gently with his hand until his quivering had subsided completely. The fields dissolved into mist, and Ronan’s breath came easy.

 “Sleep now,” said Gansey. “You magnificent creature.”

Ronan closed his eyes. Outside, rain fell.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any fans of Virgil.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I am planning on doing a sequel with Adam and how he deals with the sappy romantic mess that are his new friends, as well as his own aversion to physical contact so keep a look out,
> 
> Please let me know what you think and as always feel free to yell at me on [tumblr](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/)


End file.
